Diamonds, dirty knees and Slurpees
Some of my favourite childhood memories have happened on a ball diamond. I played for a few years as a preteen, in my cobalt blue uniform and giant white hoop earrings. The coach, Wayne, was a friend of our family, and I in all my brevity hollered at the team introductions "Can I call you Wiener?!" The look I got from my mom and stepdad, I thought I was dead meat. The kids all laughed, but of course, they are 10-year-old kids. I didn't think he would mind, heck that's what we all called him, off the diamond of course. Lesson learned, just because your parents do something, doesn't mean you get to. We spent months on the bleachers, getting candy and hotdogs from concessions, running in knee-high weeds that show up as an allergy so bad your eyes are swollen shut; me being the team babysitter for all the runts the parents wanted out of their sight. I was decent, if I recall correctly. I wasn't scared of the ball, so I could hit, and ...